Hurricane Ida
At the last minute, I went to see a comedy show with my friend Mark Grochowski in the new City Winery by the MeatPacking District in…
At the last minute, I went to see a comedy show with my friend Mark Grochowski in the new City Winery by the MeatPacking District in Manhattan. It was raining hard when we arrived, we were soaked but excited for the show.
City Winery was chaotic, drinks and food didn’t arrive, checks didn’t get dropped, the waitstaff was understaffed and overwhelmed, yet there was a gaggle of security guards and checklist people standing around the door. Interesting management priorities. John Mulaney was sharp and funny but so acutely narcissistic it made me scared for America.
After it wrapped, Mark walked me through the pouring rains to the subway on 14th Street. I waited as each of the different MTA messages conflicted: sleek digital signs on the platform said trains were coming; aging LED signs hanging from the ceiling said trains were delayed; a robotic PA announcer droned about “subway investigations” and delays at far off stations. The platform was busy with tired people ready for home. Maybe 11:30pm. Dark water entered the tracks. It grew in height and velocity. I kept an eye on the 3rd rail. The digital sign promises a train is coming in 3 minutes. I waited 3 minutes. Then another 3 minutes. No trains. Waters rising. The 3rd rail started to spark half way down the platform. After surviving 9/11, Sandy and Covid I learned what to do in a crisis: leave.
I live 7 miles from the station in Brooklyn.
Texted Emily to say I’d walk home, but I only made it a few blocks, it was raining too hard. I hiked in squishy socks and my jeans clinging to my legs until I found a late night bar. 20-year-olds listened to 80s music, later I realized from their parents generation. I’m talking Tears for Fears and Love Shack by the B-52s, the most maddening, nonsensically high energy song ever recorded in Western Civilization. I nursed a bottle of beer while trying Uber, Lyft and the NYC taxi app for a ride. Nothing. The apps said “be ready in 3 minutes” for at least two hours, a nice echo from the subway platform. My phone’s battery receded.
Meanwhile, my basement water sensor sent panicked alerts for flooding. Neighbors texted to ask me about my basement. The bar closed, it was now windy, rainy and very cold — especially if you’re soaked. I walked back to the subway because it was warm. People waited. I took a nap. I realized staying indoors wouldn’t get me home, at about 2:30AM I started walking south, to Canal Street, so I could walk over the Manhattan Bridge.
On the way I saw three Citibikes at a station. A drunken couple took two of the bikes. One left. My app wouldn’t unlock it — I tried and tried but the flashlight created glare against the rainy handlebars. I used my credit card for a code to unlock the bike. Tried the code. Didn’t work. Tried again. Worked! I biked 6 miles home in the dark.
A few people cycled or walked over the bridge. I experienced the accuracy of the neighborhood suffixes for Boerum Hill, Park Slope, Prospect Heights and Crown Heights. They’re all uphill. By 3AM I docked my bike, walked the final stretch to my front door, inspected my wet but manageable basement (my neighbor Susan Gabbay and her husband came over while I was gone and had vacuumed up a lot of it, I’m incredibly grateful). I peeled off my wet clothes and fell asleep by 4AM. I’m dry, safe and healthy. Grateful to friends and neighbors and in need of more coffee.
I hope to never hear Love Shack ever again, but now I’m thinking it’s all a metaphor for Sukkot: the fragility of a life that endures nevertheless, year after year. Shana tova. 5782 can’t come fast enough.